


A Stolen Kiss

by unpopcultural



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Blood, CPR, Canon (ish), Hurt John Watson, Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, Major character death only briefly referenced, Oneshot, Possibly set during series 4, Short, Vague
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-01
Updated: 2015-08-01
Packaged: 2018-04-12 09:01:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 690
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4473305
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/unpopcultural/pseuds/unpopcultural
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John is hurt and Sherlock has to help him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Stolen Kiss

Sherlock knew blood.

He'd seen the blood of countless corpses during his time as a consulting detective. He'd seen the blood of killers and victims alike. He'd seen his own blood, more than several times; Sherlock Holmes wasn't exactly a cautious person.

Despite all of Sherlock's experience with blood, nothing was quite like dousing his hands in the blood of the man he loved.

It just kept spilling over Sherlock's fingers, ink-black in the night. Sherlock's hands were pressed into the gunshot wound in John's chest, applying pressure, feeling desperately for the heartbeat. It was still there; weak, but there.

They were in the middle of a cold, shadowy alley lit only by a flickering streetlight. Three bodies lay strewn across the asphalt: John Watson, barely alive; Mary Morstan, dead; James Moriarty, dead for the second time. And Sherlock, the odd one out, crouched over John, pressing his long, pale hands into John's bloody chest. The ground was hard beneath his knees.

Sherlock had dialed the police, but they weren't there yet. Why weren't they _there_ yet?

Sherlock gasped and looked down at John's face when he felt the weak heartbeat flutter, then slow to a crawl.

"No," he whispered. Or it may have been a shout. "John?" Sherlock's breath plumed in the winter air.

John's head lolled to the side.

_Cardiopulmonary resuscitation,_ a voice in Sherlock's head stated calmly. It began to rattle off words:  _Chest compressions clear airway breathe for the person check for chest movement_. _  
_

John did have a gunshot wound, but Sherlock couldn't let his brain lose blood flow. It was more important to get his heart started than to keep pressure on the wound.

"John?" Sherlock asked quietly. "Okay... okay."

He placed his hands squarely on John's chest and began compressions. One... two... three...

While still pressing on John's chest, Sherlock swiped a finger into John's mouth to make sure nothing was blocking the airway. No blood, he was relieved to see. The airway was clear.

But now came the difficult part: mouth-to-mouth breathing. Sherlock slowed, then remembered to keep his compressions steady.

It wasn't that Sherlock had never conducted rescue breathing before. He was trained in it, and he had been required to use it a handful of times, most recently on a collapsed living statue performer in the middle of London. Sherlock's qualm was the fact that this wasn't some anonymous stabbing victim lying under his arms. It was John. And he was in love with John. And he couldn't have their first kiss be like this.

_It wouldn't be your first real kiss_ , his internal voice chided. 

But it would be the first time their lips would meet. It would be the first time Sherlock would know what John's lips felt like against his, the shape and texture of them. Sherlock continued doing chest compressions in a kind of reverie, staring slack-jawed, wide-eyed at his friend. His friend who was  _dying_.

Sherlock leaned over so that his face was centimeters above John's.

Maybe this would be their only kiss. But he would never know for sure if he didn't try.

Sherlock pinched John's nose to close the nostrils and pressed his open mouth to John's, shivering slightly.

He ignored the smoothness of John's lips, the texture of the stubble above his mouth, the scent of tea and shampoo and whatever that was that made up John Watson. Sherlock just breathed. One breath. No movement from John. Two breaths. John's chest was still.

Sherlock resumed pressing on John's chest. His vision blurred and he blinked away tears. The bricks of the buildings on either side of him seemed to spin around them, like they were in a centrifuge.

He returned his trembling mouth to John's. One breath. Two breaths. Sherlock poured himself into the breaths, exhaled as much air as was possible, infused himself into John's body.

A gurgle. John's chest rose slightly, and Sherlock could feel the doctor's heartbeat quicken, then steady.

Sherlock emitted a wordless sobbing sound, equal parts fear and elation. He gripped the sides of John's jumper and buried his face in John's neck. He could hear police sirens.


End file.
